


Ai

by talkplaylove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Draco is a Host, HP: EWE, Harry is a Wanderer, Host Clubs, Jealous!Harry, Jealousy, M/M, Rimming, unusual careers, warning for forced throwing up? to get rid of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkplaylove/pseuds/talkplaylove
Summary: Harry Potter wanders into a bar.(Written for hd_fan_fair 2012, Career Fair. Draco is a host, Harry is a wanderer. Posted on AO3, 2017.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for and posted on hd_fan_fair 2012. Posting on AO3 now because... reasons. 
> 
> Ai is a real host club in Kabuchiko, Tokyo. While parts of this story relating to the life of a host or about the Host Club Industry in general are based on documentaries, papers, and a book about the Japanese Host Club industry, they do not necessarily reflect the practices or experiences of the real hosts in Ai. I highly doubt that they practice magic there although, as I haven't visited the club, I cannot confirm if this statement is 100% accurate. 
> 
>  
> 
> Quick etymology at the end, if you're interested.

It all starts on a Friday evening. 

The music is loud, pulsing even over the raucous laughter and clink of drinks. Outside, the night air is balmy, and good-looking men in suits attempt to strike up a conversation with the passersby. Behind them stands a club, the word "Ai" in curling font and glowing red lights. It's a weeknight, and weeknights are always busy for host clubs like Ai. Women and men come straight from work, looking for drinks, company, and the affection that can only be given by someone who is paid to give it. A lot of the host club's clientele are hostesses from other establishments, looking for the same comfort and pampering they give to men for work. Ai has its fair share of tourists, too, who want to experience the other side of Japanese pop culture—its infamous sex industry. Most Western customers usually ask for Japanese hosts to keep up with what they think is "exotic" —so Draco Malfoy is more than a bit surprised when he is told that the Western couple that came in some ten minutes ago has picked him from the club's menu. 

At the front of the club is a wall of photographs—photos of the hosts in Ai are arranged in gilded gold frames, with numbers below each photo. For first-time customers, this wall serves as the menu, where they can choose their host for the evening. For the hosts, it's a mark of how well they did their job during the previous months. Being a host is a bit like a popularity contest—the host who has the most clients and earnings per month is ranked number one, and his photo is at the top position on the wall. Draco's photo has been on the top spot for two years now. 

Draco nods at the messenger and continues flirting with his Friday night regulars, a couple of thirty year old women who work at a call center. Yuki has a bad dye job, blonde hair with awful streaks, and Rina has dark hair and small breasts. Yuki smokes, hates her job, has two dogs. Rina lives with her mother and likes baking. Draco tries his best to remember little things like these, if only to foster the illusion that the relationship they have is real.

"Ah, your glass is empty. Let me refill it for you." He levitates the liquor off the table and pours it into Yuki's glass. She laughs and thanks him, placing her head on his shoulder. Draco makes sure Rina's glass is full as well and smiles at both of them before excusing himself. The women pout at him and he promises to come back before the hour is up. They let him go then, because no matter how much he makes it seem that they're on a date and they're the only ones in the club, they all know that it's just an elaborate fantasy. 

He runs his hands through his hair and fixes the lapels of his suit jacket before he walks to the corner table, where the Western couple sit. From here, Draco sees that the girl has long blonde hair—she is looking at the glass adorned walls, one hand raised as if counting, her mouth moving. The male sits with his back to the club, one hand uneasily rubbing the back of his neck. Draco bites his lip and tries to read more of their body language, gauging to see if they're romantically involved and the male is uneasy at the host club atmosphere, or if they're friends and the male has just been an unwilling victim of his friend's fancy to try out a Japanese Host Club. It happens.

The lights in the club are always dim, fostering a cozy atmosphere amidst the crystal decorations. Draco is standing right behind the male, the words, "What can I get you this fine evening?" falling from his lips before he realizes he knows the blonde woman counting the decor. 

His heart plummets to his stomach when the male looks up, shock of dark hair giving way to startling green eyes behind glasses and a familiar shaped scar.

"Malfoy." Harry Potter's eyes widen in shock. Draco blinks back at him, hands frozen at the back of Harry's chair. Draco hasn't seen Harry in person since his trials. His eyes look over Potter quickly, and from the limited view he has —Potter looks good, a healthy tan, no dark circles under his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and Draco can see the hard line of muscle against the fabric.

"Potter," Draco says, expression shuttering to guarded. There is something about Potter that always makes Draco go on the defensive, even with years of peace between them—as much 'peace' as it can be, when one refused to identify The Boy Who Lived in a hostage situation, and when The Boy Who Lived saved one's life during the thick of battle and vouched for oneself and one's mother at their respective trials. Potter’s eyes rake Draco's form from head to toe and Draco tries not to fidget. His suit is impeccable and his hair is elegantly styled, and he is the number one host in Ai. Potter, even with his post-Auror training physique, shouldn't be a problem. 

"Hullo, Draco," Luna Lovegood says serenely. She pats the seat in between her and Potter. "Come sit."

Draco directs a smile at her. "Shall I get you something to drink first? A bottle of sake? Wine?"

"I'll have a glass of Ogden's," Potter says, running a hand through his messy hair.

Draco smiles at him and tries not to be disconcerted by the fact that the action makes Potter’s hair fall into his eyes, and it makes him look just a bit attractive. "They sell by the bottle here if you take a table, Potter." He looks at Luna. "If the lady agrees, a bottle of Ogden's for this table then?"

Luna nods. Draco walks to the bar and orders. He doesn't need to do this—all the tables are wired with a spell the hosts can activate; Draco only needs to spell out a drink with his wand on the table and the writing will appear on the bar. The bartender will fix the drink and Draco can levitate it over to the client's table. 

But Draco needs a bit of time to sort himself out from the shock of seeing Potter and to keep a firm lid on his temper. His fingers make a steady rhythm on the bar as he watches Potter hiss at Luna, one of his hands flailing. Luna shrugs and smiles, motioning to the glass-decorated walls. Draco spares a glance; there's nothing there but hundreds of horrid glass decors. Across the bar one of his regulars smiles at him—Yuu? Yamamoto? Yosuke!—and he smiles back, sending a wink his way. Finally, the drinks and glasses are ready. Draco takes a deep breath and checks his hair one last time on the shiny countertop—perfect—and he levitates the tray to Potter’s table.

Potter looks angry, but when has he not been angry in Draco's presence? Luna sends him a smile and Draco puts on his best host face, still cool but approachable. The type the Japanese seem to like—a cool guy they could win over. Although honestly, working in Japan has already given him quite an edge—in a place where 98 per cent of the population is Japanese, Draco is mysterious and striking. And exceptionally tall. 

Draco serves Luna first, directing the bottle of Firewhisky to pour itself into a glass with his wand. He serves Potter next, the liquid flowing from the bottle and splashing onto the ice. Potter watches the liquid and Draco taps the bottle once the glass is almost full. He lifts the glass from the tray and hands it to Potter. Potter looks at him stupidly, blinking. Draco fights down an irritated tick that he knows is going to show on his face, forcing a smile.

"Here's your drink, then," Draco says—as if it needs saying— and holds it patiently, fingers absorbing the cold moisture, until Potter reaches for it warily. Their fingers brush as the glass exchanges hands and Draco suppresses a shiver at the sudden warmth of Potter’s hand amidst the cool of the glass. 

He pours himself a glass and sits between Luna and Potter. For any other customer on any other evening, Draco would have begun talking, flirting, complimenting, making them feel beautiful and wanted and loved. But he is on a table with Luna Lovegood and Harry Potter. A girl who was once held hostage in his very own home and—how would he even begin to describe the nature of his relationship with Potter?

Potter has downed half his glass and Draco snaps to attention, a little bit relieved to have something to do. He refills Potter’s glass, levitating the bottle and stopping it once the glass is almost full. Potter looks at him again, eyes unreadable, and takes the glass without comment. Draco takes a deep breath and smiles charmingly at Luna. He's learned to pick his battles better. 

"So, what brings you both to Japan?"

Luna places an elbow on the table, neck on her upturned palm. "The Quibbler is doing an article on shapushiftus. They're native to Japan but are spreading to other parts of the world. Dad says they can be found on streets with tons of people who like to pretend to be someone they aren't."

Draco blinks and closes his mouth, which he only realizes had dropped open somewhere in the middle of Luna's reply. Potter is looking at him and coughing, eyes crinkled in mirth. Draco kind of wants to say, _But everyone pretends to be someone they aren't, consciously or not_. But then he realizes he is sitting with Luna Lovegood who is the exception to that, so the point is moot. He adjusts his gray tie, trying to find his composure. 

"I assume you've visited Harajuku, then?" 

"Now why would that be a place to find them?" Luna asks, taking a sip of her Firewhisky. "That's the place most of the people who dress up in costumes frequent, right?"

Draco opens his mouth again to say _exactly_ but thinks better of it. He takes a swig of his drink and turns to Potter instead. "And I assume you are here to help hunt down... er... shapushiftus?"

"Er, no, actually." Potter takes another pull of his Firewhisky and Draco refills his glass as soon as the empty container touches the polished table top. It's a mark of a good host to always ply your clients with drinks. "I've been traveling."

"Harry hasn't been back to England in three years," Luna says conversationally. "Almost as long as you, Draco."

Potter fidgets in his seat and tugs on his shirt collar. Draco finds himself following the path Potter’s fingers take as he tugs the cotton, exposing sun-warmed skin and collarbones. He blinks and looks away. "So, how long have been here then, Malfoy?"

"I traveled a bit a couple of years after—well, after. China, Korea. After a year, I ended up here and I've been here since—almost three years, I reckon." Draco finishes his glass and serves himself. He is usually much more eloquent than this—but usually, his clients aren't people from his past. The bottle is two-thirds empty. He refills Potter’s glass, which has become half-empty again. Either Potter drinks Firewhisky like a man in the desert drinks water or he is as uncomfortable with the situation as Draco is.  
Draco looks at Potter subtly, noting how his face has filled out some since he last saw him. The club lights play on the angles of Potter’s jaw and the contour of his nose, half his face in shadow. Potter... seems to have grown into some attractive qualities. The shock of black hair is still a mess, the scar is still on his forehead, and his beautiful green eyes will probably always look world-weary. But there is something about the way he carries himself now that makes all the difference, along with the healthy pallor of his skin and the weight and muscle gain.

"And you've been working... er... here... since then?" Potter’s eyes flicker around the club. Jin, the bartender, wipes down the countertop of the bar while chatting with Yosuke. A couple of tables over, a host gives his client a backrub. Another table holds a group of girls, three hosts in their midst, their table full of drinks and giggles. Potter’s eyes linger on Ryo, second in ranking to Draco this month, as he whispers into his client's ear, his arm around her shoulders.

There's something about the way that Potter says it and the way he looks around the club that irks Draco. Maybe it's his uneasiness or his tone of voice. Or maybe it's the fact that it's Potter. 

"Not exactly," Draco says coolly. Potter downs another glass. "I started here after I turned twenty-one, around six months after I came here."

"Failed everything else, have you?" 

Draco almost winces visibly. He curls his fingers around his glass to keep them from shaking. He and Potter haven't talked since his trials—and not even then. Potter had given his statement, stayed for the sentencing (six month community service), handed him his wand with a single nod and had left. And that was it. Draco had foolishly thought they'd come to some kind of non-verbal truce—one where they'd agree to studiously ignore each other's presence. But now, years after—how dare Potter come into his place of employ and insult him? He breathes, slowly, carefully, one, two, three. 

"Or were the sex industries in those countries not good enough for you?" 

The glass breaks. Draco blinks at the sudden burn on his hand. Blood runs in lines along his palm. 

"Shit, I'm sorry." Potter says, eyes wide behind his glasses. His eyes drop to Draco's hand, then his face, panic-stricken, searching. "It's just—it's you—and—rent boy—"

Trust Potter to panic at the sight of blood. Again. Draco closes his eyes and takes a long breath.

"Please keep quiet, Potter." Draco says. He makes sure to smile because he can see Jin watching him as he wipes down the counter. "I'm so sorry for my clumsiness." 

Draco repairs the glass, cleans the table, and heals his hand—in that order. Potter looks a mixture of confused and ashen.

Draco counts to three again. He looks at Potter, eyes a cool molten gray. "Let me make one thing clear, Potter. I'm not a rent boy. I don't get paid to have sex."

Potter frowns, lines etched on his forehead. He licks his lips and his eyes flicker to Ryo, who is now nuzzling his client's neck, before meeting Draco's. 

"But you work in here."

"Exactly. I'm a host. Things are different here than they are in England." _Idiot_ , Draco adds silently. His fingers splay on the cool table. "Hosts are here to sell fantasies, not sex."

"What," Potter says, blinking. His eyes flick back to Ryo, who has distanced himself from his client a little and is laughing. 

"It's nice," Lovegood says, staring off into the distance. "It makes you feel horrible once you think about it, having to pay for company and the illusion of love, but if you don't think about it too hard—or if you enter this knowing it's just commodified romance, it's a lovely idea. It helps those who are lonely, at least."

Draco silently casts a spell underneath the table to make sure they aren't using the language translation spell. It wouldn't do for the clientele—and the staff—to hear talk about reality in this place, where illusion and fantasy are housed and cultivated. It's not taboo—regulars know that everything said and done here are merely constructed fantasies, made to play out to help people relax, feel wanted, feel less alone. People come here for a reason, but to have their loneliness blatantly thrown in their faces as nonchalantly as that would hurt. 

"It sounds like bull," Potter says, frowning. "Why would people even do this to themselves?"

"So you can understand why people pay for sex, but not for companionship?" Draco asks, tucking his wand back in his pocket to lessen the temptation to hex Potter. "It seems the same to me."

"No," Potter says slowly. "I can't understand why people pay for either of those things." He looks at Draco in the eye. For a man who's drunk more than three glasses of Firewhisky in the last fifteen minutes, Potter’s eyes still gleam sober. 

"Why are you here, then?" Draco says, and this time he can't keep the ice from his tone. He hopes none of the other hosts are listening.

Harry flushes inexplicably. 

"I wanted to come," Luna says, airy tones swirling through the tension. "I dragged Harry along, d'you know we haven't seen him in three years? I was lucky to run into him at a café earlier." Luna is smiling at them—no, at the space between them—and Draco has to look to see what's put the grin on her face but there is nothing there but lights and the entrance to the toilets to the left.

"People come because they don't feel appreciated enough in their work or their lives, Potter. And here, we give it to them." And because Potter brings out the twelve-year old in him, Draco adds, "Of course, being well-worshipped, you wouldn't know what that felt like." 

"For you to show someone how 'appreciated' they are and make them feel better? Yeah, I can't even imagine how someone like you would begin to do that." Potter says. 

Draco glares at him and Potter glares right back, green eyes on fire. Would they always be like this? On the speakers, the balladeer croons some Japanese hit from the nineties. Luna smiles at the air between them. Draco looks away, briefly closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes and points his wand at the bottle, focused on refilling their glasses. The bottle is finally empty and Draco stands. The urge to hex Potter is not subsiding at all and that is not something he wishes to do in his place of employ.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to talk to my other clients here tonight. Here are your drinks. Shall I get you some more while you wait?"

Potter blinks, startled by the politeness. He looks at Draco again, assessing, before he shakes his head. He drops his head into his hands. 

Draco walks over to the bar, taking measured steps and counting his breaths. Ryo passes by him, heading to Harry and Luna's table. It's custom for hosts to meet clients who are in the club for the first time, so the client can choose the host they want to see regularly. Once Draco feels calm enough, he heads to the bar and drapes himself behind Yosuke, resting his chin on Yosuke's shoulder.

"How's my most handsome client doing?" It's a lie, of course. But the point is to make people feel good about themselves.

Yosuke laughs. "Ah, I'm not handsome."

Draco silently agrees, but it's typical for the Japanese to reply in that manner when given compliments. "Of course you are," he says instead, fingers squeezing Yosuke's shoulders. "We should get you another drink, you don't look relaxed enough. Would you like to tell me about your day?" 

As Yosuke begins talking, Draco waves Jin over for two more pints of beer. He feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck when he smiles and flirts with Yosuke, like someone is watching him. He resists the urge to turn, tries to listen intently to Yosuke's story so he can make conversation later on, taking note of important details that he can use in the future to keep Yosuke coming back to the club. When Yosuke's story is finished, ten minutes have passed. Draco chats with him for ten more and promises to come back. He walks back to Yuki and Rina's table, sparing a glance for the table in the corner—Potter and Luna are gone. His shoulders sag in relief. And if there is a little throb of disappointment that they, the only traces of home he's seen in years, didn't even bother to say goodbye, Draco buries it in deep smiles and quiet conversation in the pulsing lights of Ai.

*

 

Draco scrutinizes himself in the full length mirror inside his flat. His tie is littered with some famous blue cartoon character that apparently pulls out futuristic inventions from its pouch. It's a gift from a client and that is the only reason he's wearing it tonight. He snaps his belt buckle on, the leather snug around his hips. 

"You seem preoccupied, dear," the mirror tells him in its high voice. 

Draco shrugs, a wry smile slipping from his lips. He almost replies that he's a little worried that Potter and Luna would come again, although the possibility of it is minimal, considering last night, but remembers just in time that the mirror is just that—a mirror, even if it does seem like a good conversationalist. 

Mirrors are not people. 

He sighs and spells his hair so it's styled the way most of his clients like it—natural looking and soft. He turns once more in the mirror, face set. He is wearing a pinstriped navy blue three-piece suit, suit jacket unbuttoned. He needs to look more than his best tonight—there is no telling if the other hosts had seen or heard his conversation with Potter yesterday. 

He worries his bottom lip a little, thinking about his top spot in Ai, knowing full well how some hosts would do close to anything to knock him down a few pegs. He's been the top host for two years, shooting to the number one position in less than a year of working there, a fact which most of the hosts who'd been working at Ai didn't take well. That and the fact that being a host is an extremely competitive job, so no matter what rank one is, competition is always fierce for them to earn money. 

The clock on his mantelpiece rings. It's nearing nine o'clock. Time to go to work. He Apparates straight to the Apparition point inside Ai and Takahisa waves him inside, telling him that Yuya is already at his usual table having arrived two minutes ago.

Draco groans because hosts are always expected to arrive first and greet their clients, especially the regulars. Draco is Yuya's _shimeisha_. After a client's first night in a club, they'll be asked to choose which host they like best, and that host will be their _shimeisha_ , tending to them every time they return to the club. This system prevents hosts from stealing other's clients. It also fosters the illusion that a certain host is the client's boyfriend, for all intents and purposes. Clients are stuck with their _shimeisha_ until they tire of his service (and move to a different club) or get buried in debt. 

He bows to Yuya at 90 degrees, profusely apologizing for his tardiness. Yuya accepts it with grace and motions for him to take a seat, which Draco does, tapping his wand at the table's polished surface. Since Yuya is a regular, the order will appear on the surface of the bar in front of Jin and Draco will only have to wait for the liquor to be placed on the counter before he can levitate it to their table. 

Yuya works for the Japanese counterpart of Gringotts as a curse-breaker and regularly gifts Draco with trinkets, chocolate and once, on Draco's birthday, an expensive watch. Hosts can't be paid with money that comes directly from the clients. Gifts, on the other hand, they can accept. Hosts earn from their client's orders—the quickest way to earn is to drink, since alcohol has exorbitant additional fees in clubs. This means drinking a lot of alcohol chosen by clients and encouraging them to always buy more. Most hosts try to keep their clients in the club up until the wee hours of the morning.

Yuya greets him and starts speaking in Japanese and it is then that Draco realizes he's forgotten to do the translation spell before coming in. His lip curls in distaste; he can blame this on Potter, surely? The arrogant arse only had to come in one night to upset Draco's carefully molded life and routine. He smiles at Yuya, fingers curling around Yuya's wrist. In perfect Japanese, he makes a quick apology-ridden excuse to use the loo. Yuya waves him off and Draco quickly Levitates their drinks on the table, serves Yuya, promises to be right back and heads to the toilets. His fingers clutch the doorknob a little too tightly and the door bangs behind him as he enters. He walks over to the ornate sink, washes his face and stares at his reflection in the mirror, annoyed. He hasn't committed such a rookie mistake since his first month in. He takes a deep breath, fingers curling against the ceramic, counts to three. 

He pulls his wand out, points at himself and says clearly, "Loquilingua Nihonggo."  
The translation spell isn't perfect but it helps him speak and understand what everyone else is saying—Draco’s adequate at Japanese after three years, but the translation spell helps him absorb everything around him as well, which he still finds hard to do. He pockets his wand and walks out of the loo. As soon as the doors close behind him, the slow melodic voice of Ken Hirai fills the air. Draco makes his way over to Yuya, navigating through the tables, when something catches his eye.

Flowing blonde hair and a shock of dark hair, at another table.  
No.  
Draco turns, and sure enough, Luna and Potter are there, sitting at a different table. Potter is wearing a black button-down and jeans, and Luna is wearing a dress that sparkles like a disco ball. She fits right in the club décor and Draco fleetingly wonders if she did it on purpose.

Potter and Luna are talking to Takahisa who is motioning to the wall of rankings at the front of the club. Draco takes a deep breath and goes back to Yuya—there is no way that Potter would make him their shimeisha, which is what Takahisa is probably discussing with them now. Especially not after the way Potter was looking at Ryo last night. Draco suppresses a snort at that and boxes down resentment—even in a place where he is clearly the best, he still isn't good enough for Perfect Potter. 

Draco slips back to Yuya's table and smiles. Yuya begins talking again and Draco takes a sip from his drink, noting that Yuya has chosen the most expensive liquor on the menu. 

Yuya is showing him a burn from a Fire Crab he encountered in Fiji while on a business trip for the bank. It's a long line from his forearm to his wrist. Draco traces his fingers over it, making a sympathetic sound and recommending potions to help lessen the scarring, all the while assuring Yuya that the burn only made him seem manlier (Yuya seems to like that, like being 'manlier' was an actual trait) and more handsome. 

Yuya does the usual _Ah, no, really?_ and Draco assures him some more. Yuya smiles at him, places his hand on Draco's thigh. Of all Draco's clients, Yuya is the most generous and is pretty good looking—and tall, for a man whose country’s average male height is five foot seven. He's got a great job and good personality, and Draco thinks he could be the perfect catch—if only he actually had time to date. 

Yuya drains his tumbler of scotch and tells him another story, this time of a Tebo guarding an old wizarding vault in Zaire. Draco feels the prickling at the back of his neck again and he can't shake the feeling that someone is definitely watching him. This time, he uses the guise of pouring Yuya another drink to look sideways and— there. Potter is watching him, a funny look on his face. Takahisa is still there, nodding at Luna, but his eyes are glazed. Potter catches Draco's eye. He says something to Takahisa, still not breaking eye contact with Draco. Draco blinks, heart speeding up at the intense look Potter is giving him. He flicks a glance to Takahisa; Takahisa looks relieved as he bows and leaves the table. 

Draco turns back to Yuya just in time to ask a question and Yuya tells him about the cursed jewels in the vault in Zaire. Takahisa passes by, giving both of them a quick bow, tapping Draco on the shoulder and motioning to Potter’s table.

"Sorry to interrupt. They picked you. Please take care of them." Takahisa says before he goes back to his spot at the front door, to assist people coming in the club.

For the second time in two nights, Draco finds his mouth dropping open. 

*

 

"Look," is the first thing Potter says when Draco reaches their table. He stands up. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone. "I apologize for yesterday. It's been years and a lot has happened since—since Hogwarts. It was... childish of me to say what I did yesterday." He extends his hand. 

Draco stares at it.

Luna hums. 

The air between them is tense, even as Japanese pop music fill the room. _Since Hogwarts? Since you hated me on principle? Since I hated you for not accepting my well-meant offer of friendship? Since I saved your life at Malfoy Manor? Since you saved me during the Battle?_ Draco's thoughts fly through his head at an alarming speed. 

"I'm apologizing, Malfoy." Potter says gruffly. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. His hand is still extended, a gold watch heavy on his wrist. 

Draco licks his lips and looks at the floor. Could they do this? Start over, with Draco acting like he is in love with Potter—at least, while he is a client in Ai?  
Dimly, Draco knows that some of the hosts whose clients haven't arrived yet are probably watching them from the sidelines and the thought spurns him into action. He straightens. "Apology accepted. I apologize for yesterday as well, it was not very professional of me."

He shakes Potter’s hand. Potter’s hand is warm, fingers calloused. Potter is looking at him, an expression on his face that Draco can't read. His eyes are burning an intense shade of green, sending a jolt straight to Draco's cock. Draco swallows. Maybe pretending to care for Potter would be easier than planned. At least he's got the attractive part down pat.

Luna makes a pleased sound. 

Potter looks away, flushing. He gives Draco's hand a brief squeeze before dropping it, going back to his seat. He motions for Draco to do the same.

"What can I get you both this evening?" Draco says instead. His pulse is still racing and his hand is still warm from Potter’s touch.

*

 

"You're quite affectionate with your... clients, aren't you?" Potter asks. Draco's settled between Luna and Harry again, a bottle of Antonov on the table amidst shot glasses.

"Well, yes, Potter. That's generally an aspect of flirting and making them feel wanted." Draco says, not a little sardonically. 

Luna hums beside him, before taking a shot of vodka. "I think Harry's just is a bit confused why you don't act that way with us."

Draco tries not to gape at her. Beside him, Potter coughs, choking on his vodka. 

Luna continues, "We are your clients too, after all." 

Potter is still coughing and Draco can see Jin eyeing him confusedly. Right, of course. 

Draco stands up and goes behind Potter, tapping his back to help ease air back into his lungs. He may have hit harder than intended, especially when his palm landed flat against the perfect planes of Potter’s back. 

Potter grabs his wrist and motions for him to sit down, eyes watering but the coughing fit over. Jin is still watching them with a distrustful eye. Jin has always rooted for Ryo and both of them are probably planning Draco's downfall behind his back. Draco suppresses the urge to send a well-aimed curse his way, still feeling the circle of Potter’s fingers on his wrist. He sits, and Potter lets him go. 

"Are you okay, Potter?" Draco asks instead, making sure to look concerned. This part is easy; it's a look he wears every day when his clients unburden their troubles on him. He levitates the water jug and glass that Jin places on the bar to their table, pouring a glass for Potter. Potter drinks the offered liquid, his throat moving as he gulps down the water. Draco's eyes follow the lines of his throat down to the exposed 'V' of his collar and—

Draco turns to Luna quickly, refills their shot glasses by tapping his wand to the vodka bottle. 

"Yes, you are," he continues, as if Luna’s statement wasn't interrupted by Potter’s coughing fit. The image of Potter gulping down water is burned to his retinas. He takes a deep breath, dispelling the image. 

He smiles at Luna, leaning into the space between their seats. "And have I told you how lovely you look this evening?" 

"Oh, don't," Luna says, waving a hand in front of his face. "We've no kiligblues between us. You're disrupting my research of them here—go attend to Harry, I'd like to see what happens to them." 

Draco sits back and blinks. A roar of laughter comes up from the next table as the host assigned there finishes telling a joke. "I thought you were here for... er, shapushiftus?"

"Yes. I didn't expect to see kiligblues here, though. I might as well observe while they're here," Luna says dreamily, once again watching the space between him and Potter. "It's a wonderful thing, they've gone and brightened after Harry's coughing fit."

Not for the first time, Draco wonders if Luna had always been like this before being trapped in Malfoy Manor or the prolonged entrapment made her imagination worse.

"Right," he says and turns to Potter. Best to follow client's wishes and all that. "So, have I told you how dashingly heroic you look this evening?" 

"Shut it," Potter says. He knocks down another shot. 

Draco rolls his eyes, noting the tinge of red across Potter’s cheeks. Interesting. He refills Potter’s glass and scoots closer, chin pillowed on his hand. 

"You do, though. Auror training has been good to you." He meets Potter’s gaze for a second, before dropping it to look him over appreciatively. His shirt fits snugly across his chest, biceps outlined in the dark fabric.

"How'd you know I went into Auror training?" Potter asks. There's a slight flush in his neck now, but he pretends it doesn't exist. 

"The Prophet. I was still in England during that time. I'm surprised they let you take a leave of absence this long or is it just another perk of being the great Harry Potter?" 

Damn. Draco worries his lower lip, wondering if this ends their truce. And they were doing so well, too. Well, not really, but it had been a far more civilized ten minutes than any they've ever had in their history. There is just something about Potter that makes him like this. 

It's to his surprise that Potter just rolls his eyes, tipping his drink back. "I was in the program for a year. Then I joined the force. I was there for a year and a half... then I left. Started traveling." 

Oh. No hostility there. Maybe Potter was actually sincere about them acting like their age?

Draco taps his wand to the bottle of vodka and empties it on Potter’s and his glasses. "For England, then?" He raises his glass. Potter and Luna join him, and they drink. 

"I think I'd like one of those frozen margaritas now," Luna says, placing her empty glass on the table.

"Whatever the lady wants," Draco says, giving her a slight bow. 

"I thought you sold by the bottle here," Potter says, eyebrow raised.

Draco smirks at him. "Did I? I must have made a mistake."

Potter snorts, blowing his hair out his eyes. "I'd like a pint then." 

"Your wish is my command." He writes the orders on the table with his wand, knowing that since it's Potter and Luna's second consecutive night at the bar, a tab would have opened up for them. The writing fades from the table and appears on the bar counter. Jin looks over at it before turning to arrange the drinks. 

Luna is squinting at something on the ceiling again, not paying them any attention. Draco turns to Potter. 

"So, you've been traveling since then?" Draco asks.

It's not as much as traveling as it is wandering, but Potter doesn't say so. "Yeah. Most of Europe. It's quite lonely to be in Paris around February 14th, I'll tell you that."

Draco chuckles. So the rumors on the paper about the break-up between him and the girl Weasel must have been true. He shifts closer. "If you're single, it's probably lonely to be outside on that day."

Potter’s gaze flicks to his lips before meeting his eyes. "You're probably right." 

The table next to them erupts in laughter again, glasses clinking and cheers of "Kampai!" resonating through the club. 

Potter blinks. "Wait, did I just agree with something you said?"

"I believe you did, Potter." Draco levitates the new drinks to their table. "Will wonders never cease?"

"We should drink to that. Monumental, that moment is." Potter says, lifting his pint. His grin is easy, like Draco is his friend. 

Draco finds himself smiling as he raises his own. Harry Potter has a sense of humor. Who knew? 

*

 

The next night is duel night. In Muggle host clubs, hosts use karaoke to entertain their clients; in Ai, the only wizarding Host Club in the Kabukicho district, things are a little more interesting. 

Potter and Luna are in Ai again after a day of shopping. Well, Luna had gone and observed her shapushiftus so Potter went ahead and did some shopping for everyone back home. That's what Draco is able to pick up from his usual, "Would you like to tell me about your day?" opening. 

Luna's got a bright quill that changes colors and a piece of parchment, scribbling and occasionally looking at the space between him and Potter. Draco makes sure all their glasses stay full and he drinks his own share while he talks with Potter. The conversation is a little bit stilted, but it's moved forward from the hostile awkwardness of the first night and into the kind-of-awkward-where-two-people-who've-known-each-other-most-of-their-lives-but-have-never-really-gotten-along-but-are-now-being-mature-adults-about-it type. If there isn’t a category for one, Draco is making it now.

Draco listens as Potter tells him a little more about his travels, about trying beef jerky and getting himself talked into buying two boxes by a chatty vendor in Macau, jumping off the Macau Tower and realizing he much prefers flying, watching the sunset at Victoria's Peak in Hong Kong, riding a jeepney and tricycle in the Philippines, crawling in the Cu Chi Tunnel network in Vietnam. Draco draws Potter out and it's a mark of his effectiveness as a host—smiling and having the appropriate reactions at the correct moments, a bit of small talk, giving him appropriate attention and Potter is talking to him like he doesn't hate him, maybe even like he would to someone he could be friends with. Potter’s green eyes shine as he recounts his stories, the weariness of the situation almost gone and replaced with a comfortable ease. Draco bites in his smirk at the victory—he's not the number one host in Ai for nothing. 

When the clock strikes ten, the club's clientele increases and Draco leaves them with a promise to return later. He kisses the back of Luna's hand and strokes his fingers again at the back of Potter’s neck. Draco grins when he sees Potter suppresses a shiver at the drag of fingernails across his nape. 

"Harry, the kiligblues are multiplying at an extraordinary rate," Luna says as Draco walks away, tapping her quill against her parchment. "D'you reckon you can do something about it?"

Draco snorts once he's a safe distance away, taking a quick look at the bewildered expression on Potter’s face, before he focuses on chatting with a dark-haired Japanese man in a business suit, pale fingers tapping against the other's wrist. Draco shuffles through his clientele in his head, trying to draw out this man's name—he rarely ever comes to the club, even when Draco flatters him through text messages. In Draco's head, he's Indecisive Business Bloke, but he can't very well call him that to his face. 

The club erupts in cheers as Jin transfigures a table into a makeshift stage in the center of the room. Draco's name is cheered, along with Ryo's and Yuu's and other hosts. Indecisive Business Bloke raises his pint of lager and joins the cheering. Jin casts a Sonorus, calling Draco and Ryo to the stage. 

Draco smiles as he moves to the stage in the center of the room, Ryo walking up the other end. Draco and Ryo bow to each other and take out their wands. Jin breaks a glass to signify the beginning of the match and the whole room erupts in loud cheers. 

Draco grips his wand—it's the hawthorn, the one Harry returned after his trial—the wood cool against his palm, long fingers curled around it, the sinews of his arm pronounced as he extends and moves his arm gracefully in an arc. He still does things with a certain amount of grace and class, like he did back in Hogwarts. The duel is more a show of quick thinking and charms for the purposes of entertainment than a proper one—Ryo begins by making a rat-figure out of smoke. Draco charms a smoke-cat into existence. 

The audience watches Draco's smoke cat chase after Ryo's rat, which predictably transforms into a dog—Draco's wrist flicks and instead of a cat, a muzzle is there, placed over the dog. The dog transforms into an ant and crawls out of the muzzle easily. 

Draco's posture is calm, his lean shoulders relaxed, long legs outlined in his tailored trousers. For all his posture is calm, the minute draw of his brows on his face betray him. Draco watches the smoke ant crawl on the floor, form visible and a long smoke trail coming from one end to show the room that Ryo is still in the game. Draco rolls his shoulders, eyes flickering to the hourglass on the bar. Just a few seconds left then—and his neck prickles and he knows that Potter’s eyes are on him, aware in a sense that he never gets even when everyone's eyes on the club are trained on him—and it's a weird feeling he gets, a mixture of nerves and a thrill that Harry Potter is watching him—he flicks his wrist and the smoke muzzle turns into a sugar trail with honey in the end, for the ant to drown in. 

The last of the sand tapers through the glass. Jin declares the end of the ten minute game as Ryo and Draco both bow, Ryo giving him a quick annoyed look. Beating Draco would have given Ryo more clients—anyone beating anyone would, during these kinds of nights, but more so because Draco is holding the top spot. He earns a new client that night and ends up going back to Potter’s table only twice more, enough to set refilling spells on their alcohol, a quick chat about shapushiftus with Luna, and sharing a little of his own experience traveling in Asia with Potter. As it is, Draco is strangely a mixture of relieved and disappointed at the time cut short because Potter and him are actually talking without going at each other's throats. A little part of him wonders if this is what they could have been, if Potter had shook his hand many, many years ago. 

*

 

"I shall be leaving tomorrow," Luna announces. Draco blinks at the sudden proclamation, absorbed in a conversation with Potter about the Chinese magical community. Potter and Luna have been returning every night for two weeks, and Draco has probably been neglecting his other clients in favor of his new ones. He hasn't exactly been pulling anyone to come to the club since the night after the duel a couple of weeks ago, when Potter had interrogated him about the duels, Luna about the wandwork involved, and it's bad form to lose touch with your clients—even if he is only calling and texting them to butter them up to come to the club where they can spend hideous amounts of money on alcohol, on him. 

"You've done all your research, then?" Draco asks, turning over and smiling at her. He is still holding Potter’s wrist in his hand, trying to demonstrate an acupuncture point on his palm earlier. He goes for nonchalant, pretending to forget that Potter’s wrist is trapped between his fingers, Potter’s pulse under his thumb. Draco tries not to concentrate on how his heart is beating in his chest, in time with the pulse under his fingers. This happened over the last week, too, Draco slowly pushing the boundaries of his newfound acquaintanceship with Potter, trying to enter a bit of his personal space with flirting as he usually does with most clients. Potter is surprised at first but is slowly, slowly accepting—and sometimes even returning—Draco's advances. 

Luna shakes her head. "I'm going to Osaka, try to scope them there. I'm not planning on staying long tonight, I just wanted to say goodbye. A last round on me, then?" 

They pick up their glasses and toast to a successful venture. The club is pulsing in a slow Japanese ballad. Luna stands up and tells Potter to be good, then kisses Draco on the cheek. "I'm glad you're doing well for yourself, Draco." 

"What," Potter says, blinking at them. He removes his hand from Draco's own quickly, frowning. Draco tries not to let his disappointment show on his face.

"Oh." Luna tilts her head to the side, studying Harry's expression. "You seem puzzled?"

"I," Potter says, then clears his throat. Even after years of friendship with Luna, he still seems bewildered at her propensity for stating the obvious. "Yes, I guess. I—didn't know you two have gotten so... close?"

"I've been corresponding with Draco the past few years." Luna shrugs, fingers absently playing with the clasp of her purse. "I was even supposed to speak for Draco at his trials."

"What?" Potter asks, looking between them quickly. 

"Well, they advised against it," Luna says dreamily, now staring at the glass chandeliers on the ceiling. "They said the plaintiff will discredit it as Stockholm Syndrome."

Draco bites his tongue. He wants to tell Luna where he thinks the plaintiff could stick his head up—but it wasn't proper for a host to be so crass. He may be the only English host in Ai, but some of the other hosts had passable English skills—and if they heard him, his number one spot would be in jeopardy.

"And did you know Malfoy works here?" 

"She's gone and visited me," Draco says levelly. "We'd have drinks, she'd tell me about the state of the wizarding world in England as she sees it, and that's it." He doesn't know why he feels compelled to explain this to Harry. 

"And you didn't tell me you knew?" Harry asks Luna, flabbergasted. 

Luna shrugs. "I didn't think it would matter, you spoke up for him at his trial after all. That and there are kiligblues between you all the time." She lifted a hand to the space between them and brought it upward, smiling. "They even reach the ceiling, they're so thick."

"What is that, you keep talking about it every night? I know that's not the one you're researching... " Harry asks.

"Oh, I forget you don't know your magical creatures, Harry. They're bugs that appear between two people. All fuzzy like, with one eye, and they shine. Usually appear when someone feels that inexplicable rush after seeing someone they're attracted to or maybe after witnessing something romantic. Some other experts say they appear when the sexual tension is high, and they shine brighter if this is the case." 

Draco is equal parts horrified and fascinated, and he thinks it shows on his face, so he goes and takes a long pull of his pint for cover. Potter’s looks like his brain has stopped somewhere between 'inexplicable rush' and 'sexual tension'. 

Luna waves the parchment she's been writing on for the past few nights, "I've detailed all my observations here, it's quite extraordinary, really. Would you like to read it? It spiked a lot when you were dueling, Draco, and also earlier when you were holding his hand." 

Draco swings his mouth shut. "No, thanks," he manages to choke out.

Potter is shaking his head, face red. 

Luna shrugs. "Suit yourself. It's never happened for you before though, that one time I've been here." She looks at Harry and kisses his cheek. "Hope to see you back in England soon. And now I really must go, I've not packed at all and the Portkey leaves at five in the morning."

She wanders to the bar to settle her tab. Draco accompanies her to the Apparition point like a good host should, and Luna gives him one final smile before the crack of Apparition takes her away. 

"I don't understand," Potter says when Draco returns. "If she's been here before, why'd they make us choose a _shimeisha_ and all? Wouldn't you have been hers?"

"She doesn't really have a tab here," Draco explains, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt. "She's been here just once before, when I was just starting." 

He licks his lips, remembering the state he was in when Luna had dropped by to visit. "After that year, I'd just meet her outside of the club if she came to visit. I didn't even know she was in Japan the night you came in."

"Ah," Potter says, tapping his fingers on the table. He takes a pull of his lager. 

"Shall I get you another drink?" Draco asks, catching Potter’s fingers and holding them flat against the table. 

Potter looks at their hands and then into Draco's eyes. Potter’s eyes are beautiful, green, and the reflection of the glass chandeliers make them look like fragmented crystal glass— 

"No."

Draco drops his hand quickly. He tightens his tie and smiles. "If you need anything else, please call me." 

He stands up and walks over to the bar. He puts one arm around Yosuke, who had Apparated in when Luna left, grinning as he gets them sake. All the while, he feels Potter’s eyes boring into his back. He takes a drink of the sake, his stomach protesting at the mix of alcohol he's consumed for the night. When he turns around again, much later, Potter is gone.

*

 

Draco does not expect Potter to come back without Luna, presence of kiligblues notwithstanding. So it's to his surprise when, at eleven o'clock on Monday night, Potter strolls into Ai. Draco is with Yoko, a hostess from a club in the opposite district. She wears those circular lenses that freak Draco out but are apparently quite popular. Draco's sleeves are rolled up, waistcoat buttoned, and his jacket is strewn over his chair. Yoko likes seeing his Dark Mark; she thinks it looks strong, powerful. Draco wants to laugh at her, because that’s what he thought too—when he was sixteen and foolish. Now it just serves as a reminder of how, at playing grown-up, he had grown-up in ways children his age never should. 

Potter takes a seat at the bar. He's in a simple black v-neck and jeans this time and he looks much better than all the other nights combined. The sleeves of his shirt mold to the muscles on his arms and Draco has to drag his eyes away. If he feels a little bit pleased at the sight of Potter, that's only for him to know. 

"Let me," he murmurs to Yoko as she pulls a cigarette out from her purse. He lights the tip with his wand. She smiles at him with her eyes and takes a long drag, blowing the smoke away from both their faces. "I'll be a minute," Draco says and she waves him off. 

Draco leans with his back against the bar, elbows on the counter. He turns his head and looks at Potter. "I didn't think I'd see you today." 

Potter shrugs. "It would've been nice if you and Luna had told me you were friends."

"What can I get you, Potter?" Draco asks, turning to face the bar. Rows of overpriced alcohol, both Muggle and wizarding, line the shelves; the more expensive, the higher up it is. He can feel Potter’s body heat from the miniscule distance between them, Potter is sitting on the bar stool, left heel resting on the stool's bottom rung.

Potter snorts, dragging a hand through his hair. He has bags under his eyes. "Right, have to pay for your company and all that. Let's have a pint, then."

Draco writes it on the counter with his wand, fingers gripping the wood. "Luna and I are... friends, of a sort."

Potter raises his eyebrow.

"We had... interesting conversations. In the Manor."

"She was locked in your dungeons, Malfoy."

Two pints of beer appeared in front of them. Draco takes a deep breath before drinking. "She was. Who do you think they asked to bring food down there?"

Potter blinks at him, green eyes bright. "Oh." He takes a pull of beer, shoulders relaxing. "Oh."

It's not a very busy night tonight. Ryo has a new dye job and his client is petting and exclaiming at his hair a few tables away. Four hosts are entertaining the same amount of women at another, chips and alcohol littering their table. Yoko is still smoking, one hand toying with her mobile.

"So, wrackspurts?" Potter asks, inkling his head in Draco's direction. His fringe brushes over Draco's shoulder minutely and Draco swears he can feel it through the fabric.

The corner of Draco's mouth quirks up into a smile. "Sometimes." 

"And?"

Draco shrugs. "Things one would rather not hash through again, that sort of thing." He reaches for Potter’s wrist, one finger trailing against skin. Potter looks down and stares. 

Draco's forearm is bare, having left his jacket back at Yoko's table. The Dark Mark is stark against Draco's pale skin. 

"It didn't... disappear." Potter says. He reaches for Draco's forearm, tracing the lines with his fingers. Draco's pulse jumps under his touch. 

Draco tears his gaze away from the fingers absently tracing the ugly tattoo on his arm. He gives Potter a wry smile, one eyebrow up in a perfect arch. "Yours didn't either." 

Potter’s face immediately turns ashen, hands dropping Draco's arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I didn't know what—and you were going to use Crucio—so—" 

Draco gray eyes flick up to Potter’s confusedly, before realization dawns. "Bugger, Potter. I didn't mean that. I meant your scar." Draco reaches up and runs pale fingers through Harry's dark fringe, fingertip grazing the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. He is so close he can feel the breaths Potter takes, the scent of alcohol mixed with something uniquely _Harry_. 

"Oh," Potter says, stunned. He swallows. "Well, either way, I'm sorry for... the bathroom incident." 

Draco's hand drops from Potter’s face, offering a slight smile. He tugs at his tie, a dark grey silk. "As am I."

Potter takes a gulp of his beer. The club's track changes to a mellow tune. It's midnight. "Did it scar?"

Draco smirks at him. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

A blush blooms on Harry's face. "Shut up, Malfoy."

Draco grins and finishes his pint. He's just ordered a second round for both of them when he sees Yoko stand out of the corner of his eye. 

"Excuse me for a bit, Potter." 

He weaves past tables and reaches Yoko right before she leaves. She smiles at him. "I need to use the toilet."

"Of course," Draco says, hand clasping her purse. They move through the bar and he waits outside the women's loo as she does her business. Ryo is out there as well, leaning against the door frame of the men's, a pack of tissues in one hand. They exchange stilted small talk; Ryo has never quite forgiven him for taking over his number one spot in Ai. 

A girl comes out of the women's toilets and Ryo hands over several pieces of tissue, helping her dry her hands. They walk back inside the club, Ryo smiling. Draco watches.

*

 

"That took a while," Potter observes, knocking back his third pint. Jin fills up an order at the other end of the bar and two iced strawberry margaritas levitate to a table. 

"Far be it from me to question what women do inside the loo, Potter. It's just not done." Draco says, sitting on the stool next to Potter. 

"That was enough time to squeeze in... well. You know."

Draco's eyebrow rises as he realizes the implication. And that Potter would think of it. "What did we say about selling fantasies and not sex, Potter?"

Potter looks back at him. He hooks a leg around the rung of Draco's stool and pulls him closer. His face is inches from Draco's and Draco suddenly finds it hard to breathe. 

"You mean to tell me that nobody ever does it?"

Draco forces air into his lungs. 

"Of course not. Some hosts do. It's extremely unprofessional though—if you do something with a client, the lines blur for everything else, and you may end up losing one of the best sources of your income," he says, looking away. He can't take Potter’s gaze this close, it feels like Potter is looking straight into him. 

"Ah," Potter says. He studies Draco carefully. Draco shifts on his stool and taps his fingers on the bar, pulse still hammering. 

"Ever done that?" Potter finally asks. His eyes are inscrutable. 

"Of course not," Draco says, shooting Potter a look. "I've worked hard to be in this position, Potter. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it."

"Right," Potter says. 

Draco shifts. Somehow, he is wrong-footed. He doesn't think Potter wants to hear 'Yes' to that question, yet the truth doesn't seem to satisfy Potter either. He tugs the cuffs of his sleeves, fingers brushing the Dark Mark. The air between him and Potter has become stilted, fragile. The radio continues crooning in the background, and to the left he hears Ryo's boisterous laughter. 

Potter drains the rest of his pint. "Right. I'm off, then." He drops some Galleons on the table. His eyes are still dark.

Draco blinks. "I'll... walk you out. I never get to do it." He stands, feet landing against the cold tile. 

"Some host thing?" Potter asks, hands in the pockets of his trousers. Here in the dark lights of the club, Harry Potter looks just like any other person—any other foreigner in Japan, anyway. His shoulders are taught, the sinews of his arms strong. He and Draco are around the same height, have been since sixth year. 

"Yeah," Draco says. 

Potter nods and doesn't say anything else. They walk in silence to the Apparition point. 

Draco knows better than to say 'See you soon!' as he usually does most of his clients. "Have a safe trip," he still says.

"Do you mean that, or do you have to say it?" Potter asks him, one side of his mouth twisting upwards.

"It's custom to be polite, Potter," Draco says. 

"Thought so," Potter says. He turns and Disapparates.

Draco stays in the empty room long after Potter has left.

*

 

Potter drops by more nights after that, opting to sit at the bar than at a table, to the frustration of Jin and his limited English skills. Draco sits next to him, their legs tangling together under their stools. 

They talk about everything except themselves. 

Potter drinks anything Draco recommends, and Draco has fun finding out which drinks make Potter more... approachable. Draco knows enough that people don't act out of character when tipsy, they just think everything that passes through their head is a good idea, imbibed with liquid courage (not that Potter needs any more of that). 

Potter is more receptive to touch and flirting after a couple of drinks, playing with Draco's fingers and tangling their legs under the chair. He holds Draco's gaze a lot and smiles at Draco's stories and gives his own—his adventures in France and his first experience with the language spell, getting lost in Germany and getting ripped off on a gondola ride in Venice. He talks about the people he met in Africa, how guilty he felt whenever he was in a developing country because one pint of beer in England could already pay for lunch and dinner in them. Potter talks about his friends, about the weekly letters he receives from them and their lives back in England. One night they manage to talk about Snape and Draco squeezes Potter’s thigh in a gesture of comfort. It wins him a genuine smile from Potter and Draco feels like his breath is taken away at the sight. They don't talk about the war anymore, after that. 

By now, Draco's memorized the way Potter trips over his 'r's when intoxicated, the way he leans on his elbows when he wants more to drink, the light in his eyes when he smiles, the way he rubs his brow when confused—a mannerism he hasn't outgrown. 

For more than a week, Draco spends all of his time in the club with Potter, not bothering to contact any of his other clients at all because this is here and now and if he thought about it too much, whatever fragile magic they were standing on would break and Potter would leave and go—traveling again, or maybe home, and Draco would be here, alone. 

It's another night and both of them have a little too much to drink. Draco seats Potter at a table this time, and Potter gamely orders a bottle of Firewhisky for them.

"Because you have to order by the bottle when you're at a table, Malfoy." Potter grins, lifting his glass for a toast. 

They sit side by side in the booth, legs pressed against each other and play a juvenile drinking game that lets them know more about each other, uttered with a spell of whatever they'll find out about each other during the game won't be spread around, in pain of an acne hex that Potter leaned from Hermione in fifth year. 

Draco learns that Potter’s relationship with Ginny ended mutually, something the papers blew out of proportion; that Potter cheated on most of his homework back in school; that Potter has slept with men before. Draco admits that he hasn't been to North America, hasn't been inside a Muggle movie theater, hasn't slept with a client before, and has once spelled a drink to give another host's client diarrhea. By the time the bottle is empty, their sides are pressed against each other, Potter’s face as close it can be to Draco's without touching. Potter’s fingers tap mindlessly on Draco's thigh, to CHEMISTRY'S _Pieces of A Dream_ that the club is currently playing. 

"You're not so bad, Malfoy," Potter says, grin blinding. Draco can feel Potter’s breath on his neck and he shivers.

"Same to you, Potter." He lifts the last of the Firewhisky and drinks. When he finishes, Potter's green eyes are burning with an intensity he hasn't seen directed at him before. 

"More?" Draco manages to say, liquid gray eyes meeting green. He tries to regulate his breathing, because he thinks he can't breathe, what with the way Potter is looking at him. 

"Yeah, okay," Potter says, reaching for Draco's wrist. "Tequila shots." 

Draco's eyes widen. He writes the orders with his wand, handwriting shaky. The tequila, shot glasses and lime are arranged in no time and Potter still has his wrist. 

Draco pours them two glasses. 

Potter grins at him and brings Draco's hand to his mouth slowly. He licks a stripe between Draco's thumb and forefinger. Draco doesn't breathe. Potter sprinkles salt on Draco's hand. Still holding Draco's eyes, he licks the salt from the skin. 

Draco closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Potter has knocked back his shot glass and is sucking the lime. 

"Your turn." Potter grins.

Draco takes a deep breath. He can do this, it's just drinking. And a game. Right. "Okay."

He does the same thing to Potter’s hand, Potter watching his movements. Salt, lick, drink, suck. His stomach churns. He refills their glasses. 

"My turn," Potter says. "Come 'ere." 

Potter’s hand reaches for Draco's neck, pulling him closer. Draco's heart makes an attempt to escape his chest via banging hard on his ribcage. 

Draco's eyes shutter closed when he feels Potter’s tongue licking a stripe on the junction of his neck. He holds himself still, neck at an angle, for Potter to sprinkle salt on the skin. Then Potter’s mouth is on his neck again, sucking and Draco feels it zoom straight to his cock. His hand clenches involuntarily on Potter’s thigh and he can feel Potter smiling into his neck. Potter downs the tequila, then the lime. 

"Yours," he says, motioning to the shot glass.

Draco breathes. He can play this game, too. He holds the lime out. "Bite."

Potter blinks and grins, mouth opening to take the lime wedge between his teeth. Draco licks his own wrist, upwards to the small indentation near the base of his thumb. Salt, lick. 

Potter is watching him with hooded eyes. Draco downs the tequila, leans over Potter and bites into the lime, careful to not bite Harry's tongue. Potter’s eyes are open, and this close Draco can see the individual specks of green. 

Potter’s hand curls around his waist. Draco leans back, the wedge in his mouth, about to go take his seat when Potter stills him. 

Eyes still on him, Potter removes the lime wedge from Draco's mouth. He drops it on the table, hand reaching behind Draco's neck, thumb moving across the junction of his neck and shoulder. Draco stills, and one part of him knows what's going to happen, and another part is sitting in a corner, watching and letting the events unfold in fascination. 

Potter leans forward and kisses him. He tastes of tequila, and lime and Draco thinks it's perfect. Their lips move against each other messily and Draco whimpers when Potter’s tongue invades his mouth. Potter’s other hand is bruising against his hip, fingers burning through fabric. If Draco just shifts and leans forward a little, he'd get the friction his cock seems to be demanding. Draco runs one hand through Potter’s hair, fingers tangling in the dark locks, shifting—

A crash from the bar startles them apart. Draco looks over and finds Jin looking at them, wide-eyed. 

Bugger. Draco closes his eyes and drops back to his seat, breathing. 

Potter seems stunned as well, hand rubbing against his forehead as he blinks at his surroundings. He licks his lips. The music continues playing. Ryo is smirking at them, and so quick that Draco almost misses it, forms his finger into a gun and pretends to shoot at Draco before he leans back to his client's space, nodding at her story. Draco swallows, the implication hitting him like a bullet. 

"I—excuse me for a second, Potter." Draco almost stumbles when he stands. He takes a deep breath and walks over to the bar for a glass of water. 

"Unprofessional," Jin says, smirking. He places two on the counter and Draco levitates one over to Harry. Draco turns back around to face Jin, drinking his own glass, hands trembling. 

It takes two minutes for his hands to stop shaking. By then, he's thought of a suitable retort to say to Jin, when he feels someone tap his shoulder. Draco tenses and turns. Yuya stands there, smiling.

"Hi," Yuya says.

"Oh," Draco says, blinking at his sudden appearance. He shoves the glass back and motions for another one. He smiles, strained. "I didn't know you were coming today."

"Ah, sorry. I sent you a message, didn't you get it?" 

"Sorry, I—I must not have seen." Draco blinks. Where was his mobile, anyway?

"I had a bad day at work today," Yuya begins. He looks at the bar, squinting at the drinks. 

Draco counts to ten, pushing Potter, Jin's smirk, and Ryo's gesture out of his head. He smiles and leans closer to Yuya, smoothing his hair back and fixing his collar. 

"Poor thing. Want to tell me about it?" Draco's hands are still on Yuya's collar and Yuya smiles at him, squeezing one hand briefly. Draco drops his hands and motions for Jin to serve them some sake. 

Yuya begins telling him about his awful day at work, and Draco finds himself only half listening, his lips still burning from Potter’s touch just minutes ago. He rubs Yuya's thigh comfortingly, Yuya relaxing into his touch and drinking more sake as he continues his story, arm gestures tense.

Draco feels prickling at the back of his neck and he ignores it. 

*

 

By the time Yuya's done, they've gone through two bottles of sake and a frozen strawberry margarita. Yuya is swaying minutely on his stool. Draco rubs a soothing pattern down his back. He can still feel Potter watching him, and Draco's calm enough now not to make that mistake again. 

"Rest here. Just a little," Yuya mutters and slumps into his arms on the bar. 

"No, I think it's time for you to go home," Draco says gently, standing and almost tripping—he's still woozy and he hasn't had a chance to use the loo in three hours, a record, liters of alcohol pumping through his veins. He helps Yuya stand and brings him to the Apparition point.

When he returns to Potter’s table, Potter is quiet, eyes unreadable. 

Draco stands with the table between them. Draco opens his mouth—but Potter speaks first. 

"This job is so easy for you, isn't it?" Potter sneers. His green eyes burn with something Draco can't recognize. 

Draco's brows draw down into a frown. "What do you mean, Pot—"

Potter cuts him off again. "This. This affection." He spits the last two words like they're poison. "Then again, faking has always been a specialty of yours, isn't it?"

Draco's fingers curl around the table. That stung. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "Yeah, Potter. It's extremely easy for me." He sneers. "Why, have you lost sight of reality?"

Potter’s eyes flash. He opens his mouth and seems to think better of it, instead reaching into his pocket and dropping Galleons on the table. "There's extra for earlier. You went above and beyond duty." He smirks, an ugly thing on his face. "See you, Malfoy."

He stalks off towards the entrance. Draco clenches his hand to a fist, shaking. The club's music is too loud and he can see Ryo smirking at him for the corner—two strikes in one night. Worst of all, his client is watching too, and she would no doubt spread gossip about him. Draco closes his eyes and heads to the gents. 

He steps in a stall and closes the door behind him. He leans over the toilet, mouth open, hand clutching his stomach. He pushes and pushes, mouth formed into an O but nothing happens. He sighs and finally pulls out a small vial of Sobering Potion from his pocket, only kept for emergencies. He gulps down the liquid and feels the effects immediately, his stomach churning. He opens his mouth. 

There. Something pink and frothy and foul lands in the water. He sits back on his heels. Ten seconds and he heaves again. He does it again, and again, and again until his eyes are watering, the back of his hand wet with bile, the look on Potter’s face before he left imprinted in the back of his eyelids.

Draco rests his head against the stall, taking a deep breath, the effects of the potion finally subsiding. He knows better than to not relieve himself every hour, especially with the unhealthy amount of alcohol hosts consume every night. But with Potter with him, talking and smiling like they were friends had screwed his perspective. _Five more minutes won't hurt,_ he’d kept thinking. _Five more minutes of this._ Whose fantasy was he playing out earlier, really?

And in the end... fuck. Draco closes his eyes, willing the throbbing behind his forehead to go away. In the end, he has to do this, demeaning as it is. He hasn't puked this much alcohol in a year, not since Yuya's extravaganza when he got promoted. Bathroom breaks and maybe a couple of small heaves on full nights got him through most nights. 

The toilet door opens. "Malfoy?"

Fuck. 

Draco freezes. He hears footsteps on tile, stopping in front of his stall. "Erm. You in there?" 

Even drunk, Draco knows that voice. Potter. Must he always be there to kick Draco when he's down? Draco grabs his wand, fingers tight around the wood.

"Scourgify," Draco mutters, cleansing his mouth and fingers. 

Draco steps out of the stall.

Potter stands there, looking unsure, but definitely sober. His expression turns into one of surprised concern. "Jesus, Malfoy, what's happened?" 

Draco sees himself at the mirror behind Potter. His eyes are red and watering, face pale.

He scowls. "None of your business, Potter. Did you forget something?" He is making no effort to be polite now, anger radiating off him in waves. 

Potter scowls. "I was just asking if you were alright—“

"Why are you back here, Potter?" Draco asks coldly. He moves to the sink to wash his face. Cleaning spells can only do so much. "I haven't got all night."

"You're so difficult, I just wanted to talk --"

Draco whips around, hands still wet. He clutches the sink behind him, fingers digging into the ceramic. 

"I am difficult? Me? I'm not the one who threw a fit, Potter! I'm not the one who insulted someone right in their place of employ. I'm not the one who's warm and friendly one second and an asshole the next!"

Draco only realizes he's shouting and that he's drawn his wand, pointing straight at Potter. Potter’s reflexes are still quick as ever, his own wand leveled at Draco. There's a tick in his jaw and his eyes burn. 

The door to the loo opens. Takahisa blinks at them from the doorway, mouth dropping open, eyes wide. 

This night could not get any worse. Draco's hand shakes as he tries to calm himself enough to lower his wand. "Outside, Potter. You've done enough damage to my career tonight."

Potter almost sneers at that but lowers his own wand. 

Draco smiles at Takahisa, expression tight, fingers still tight around his wand. He casts the language spell. "Just had a little misunderstanding, Takahisa-san. We'll sort it out outside."

Takahisa flattens himself against the door as Draco and Potter sweep by him. They walk outside the club, into the bustling nightlife of the Kabukicho district. Draco keeps walking, trying to burn his anger in the steps he takes, further and further away from the club. People know him on this street, on the account of him being a foreigner frequently seen hanging around. Potter follows him silently, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

The bright neon lights from the surrounding establishments twinkle at them. 

*

 

Draco tries to build a life after the war. His father manages to flash Galleons and smooth talk his way out of trouble, getting only a couple of years house arrest instead of Azkaban. Draco and his mother get away with 'community service, to help in rebuilding the wizarding world and fostering unity among peoples' with the coupled influence of Potter's statement and his father's gold. 

Draco tries but gold and family name can only get him so far. He tries brewing potions at the apothecary. The owner is a kind woman and likes him, until her sales begin to suffer because nobody trusts a former Death Eater to heal them. Draco is kicked out kindly. Draco writes a couple of articles for the Prophet, but they end up editing and twisting his words so heavily that he quits. His father tells him to oversee the Malfoy investments instead, that working menial jobs wasn't befitting of a Malfoy anyway. Draco politely refuses; his father's circles, while people he respected back then, now hold sentiments that differ from his own. That year, Draco learns that money can buy position and status but respect has to be earned.

So Draco travels, on the advice of his mother. _Maybe you will learn something worth knowing_ , she tells him, a wry smile on her face. 

So Draco does. He goes to Asia, because that is as far as he can get, culturally. He will know nothing and no one, and nobody will know anything about him. It feels like a sufficient exchange. 

Draco doesn't expect it to be so lonely. He's lived three, almost four, years of his life in constant fear. Fear for his father getting sent to Azkaban again, fear for his life, fear that if he makes a single mistake, it would cost his family's life. Fear for his friends' lives, fear of his Aunt Bellatrix. Fear of the Dark Lord, living in his home—a place that was supposed to be safe and full of love. But loneliness is something else— before traveling, Draco realizes he has never been properly lonely before. In Hogwarts, he had his friends, even if they weren't much by the way of intelligent conversation. He had Mother and Father at home, even when the homicidal maniac who fancied himself a Lord stayed there. After the war, he still had his parents, and he communicated with Goyle, Zabini, Lovegood and even Thomas. 

But traveling alone forces him to be independent, and while making several acquaintances who don't know about his past, he finds that he can't make proper connections to anybody. He tries a couple of odd jobs but he ends up quitting them soon enough, ready to move to the next country on his list. He flirts and sleeps with a couple of good looking Muggle celebrities in Taiwan. He corresponds with his parents, Luna, and occasionally, Thomas, who once sent him an animated drawing of what he thought Draco was doing in Korea. 

Draco arrives in Japan in the middle of winter. It's cold and it's lonely, and Draco has been traveling for more than a year and he just wants some company. He gets stared at a lot, this tall, pale foreigner, especially when he finds himself in the middle of Kabukicho. Restaurants and clubs populate the district. Outside one, Japanese men in two-piece suits talk to passerby, trying to invite them in the club. Draco gets accosted by one of them—the bloke is tall, almost Draco's height with dark hair and a shy smile. He talks to Draco confidently in English, with a heavy Japanese accent, and Draco is just a little bit charmed.

His name is Ryo and Draco lets himself get led into the club. 

Like most people, he thinks the club is—well, a club. He basks in Ryo's undivided attention for more than an hour until he notices the set up—Japanese blokes in suits, either surrounded by a small group of three or engaging in one-on-one conversations with other patrons. After a long talk with Ryo, he comes to terms with what a host club is and more. He learns that Ai is the only wizarding Host Club in this district and Muggles are magically redirected to look the other way when passing by the club. His pocket is considerably lighter as he leaves that evening, but Draco is smiling for the first time in months and he doesn't care.

He comes back the next night. And the next. And the next. Ryo has a shy grin and a way of making Draco feel like he's the only person in the world, even when he flits to his other clients. Draco enjoys his company, the way Ryo doesn't ask about his past and instead listens to whatever Draco wants to say, pumped with the happiness only drinking alcohol can give. Draco could learn to love Japan. 

After three or so months, he's a bit shocked to find out he's spent more than a couple of thousand Galleons in Ai alone. 

It takes more drinks than usual, but Draco manages to loosen Ryo up enough to get him talking about being a host. Ryo earns a lot in a night, but it's not as easy as it seems. 

"You have to make people feel special. You have to serve them hand and foot. You need to show them a good time, keep them happy," Ryo says, hand gesturing. "You have to work hard to stay on top. You have to know your limits with alcohol, you have to not get drunk."

"Do you think I can do it?" Draco asks.

Ryo squints at him. "You're a little... cold. But handsome, very handsome. You need to make people believe they're special." 

Draco blinks. It's all politicking, then. A slow smile curves his lips. "I think I can do that."

Draco applies soon as a host soon after. 

*

 

Draco doesn't believe Ryo when he said the job is hard. Now Draco knows better. 

He has no clients during his first three months as a host and he stays in the club long after everyone else has gone home, cleaning the toilets and wiping down the hundred glass fixtures in the club. He holds in his bile when he sees barf on the floor, whoever had done it not bothering to clean up after themselves. _All new hosts go through this_ , they told him. _Please work hard and good luck!_

He stands outside Ai in the cold with the other hosts, trying to pull people to come into the club. Once, he flirts with a girl for a long period of time and when he thinks he's got her in the bag, her boyfriend comes and beats him up. Draco manages to stun him discreetly and runs off, eye and ribs bruised. Draco learns that day that there are plenty of Yakuza in Kabukicho and he has just pissed one of them off by flirting with his girlfriend. Luna visits him that very same night and Draco wants to bury himself in a pit of embarrassment because for all his want of independence, he's got nothing to show but a black eye and a bruised rib.

When he finally gets clients, the language barrier, even with the language translation spell, is always in the way and Draco picks up a bit more of Japanese to understand a little above the most basic of conversations. He learns to school his face into a smile, even when facing the most unattractive people. He loses his first client because she pukes on the table and Draco doesn't do anything but blink at her, grossed out and bewildered. Apparently, he is supposed to clean the mess up, comfort her, and maybe bring her to the Apparition point. He learns better after that. He swings through everything else with charm and flattery, and he realizes he's never had to make nice to so much people before—but it's slowly paying off, if his bank account is a testament to anything. So he works harder.

A year later, he's the most popular host in Ai. He's learned to use his foreign looks to his advantage, what he's learned of the Japanese culture to be perfectly polite and caring, his mind trained to focus on the important details during a client's story (although this, he has learned from very early on—it wouldn't do to space out when His Highness Voldemort is delivering a speech), he smiles on cue, his host persona picture perfect. He is doing great in a host club, one of the first things he's been great at since the war, where people like him and accept him. He is faring so well and he can't tell his parents because he has entered one of the occupations most looked down on in Japan. The irony is not lost on Draco, but it seems his fate to be this way. 

And even this, it seems, is about to be taken from him because of tonight, especially if he doesn't go back soon and do some damage control. 

*

 

Draco turns. He and Potter are near the Shinjuku station. He is calmer now, and Potter... Potter just looks tired. 

"What do you want, Potter?"

Potter looks at him. 

Draco raises an eyebrow, hand tugging at his shirt sleeves. "I haven't got all night."

"Were you throwing up in the club earlier?" Potter asks. 

Draco scowls. "It's none of your business, Potter." His eyes narrow at the look on Potter’s face. "And don't you dare pity me."

"I'm not!" Potter says quickly, hands rising in a gesture of surrender. "I wanted to help."

Draco sneers. "I don't need saving, Potter. I'm not in some Disney movie about prostitutes and living happily ever after."

Potter runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know. Can't we just... talk, like civilized people?" 

When Draco gives him a look, Potter chokes out a laugh. "Ok, probably not. It's just."

Potter takes a deep breath and shrugs, palms splayed upwards. "I came back because I wanted to tell you I was sorry, for the way I acted earlier. It... wasn't fair of me to take it out on you, especially when you were just doing your job. And... well, this is the first time in years that I've felt this... alive."

Draco's brows furrow. 

Potter’s eyes are sincere. "If you could sit down, I'd like to talk to you. With no alcohol involved."

"It's still in your system, Potter," Draco says. "And mine, though most of it is probably making its way down the sewers." 

Potter grins and aims his wand at him from inside his sleeve. Draco feels something cold and wet douse his body, and bizarrely, inside his head, but he remains completely dry. His head is completely clear, rid of all the fuzzy remnants of alcohol that even the sobering potion couldn’t remove.

"What—"

"Sobering spell." Potter says lightly, sitting on the pavement. "Learned it from a wizarding mountain tribe in the Philippines. Works much better than potions. It's because I used it on myself once I got to the hotel... realized I acted like an idiot... So I came back here." 

Draco looks at the pavement. Was Potter really expecting him to sit there?

Potter rolls his eyes and removes his jacket, laying it out next to him. "I'd conjure a blanket for you, but there are too many Muggles."

Draco sits gingerly. He doesn't know if he imagines it, but he thinks he sees a small smile flicker on Potter’s face.

Potter begins to tell him about the last three years. How, after a year of Auror training, he realizes he doesn't want to fight anymore, that he's seen enough people die and get scarred in ways that will stay with him forever. He tries working with Luna for a little bit, but he can't keep track of all of Luna's creatures to write convincing articles—plus, he never was a good writer, anyway. He works for a few brief months at George's shop with Ron, which brings more harm than good because aside from the many student clientele, the shop gets overrun with fans of the war heroes. He is scared because while he loves his friends, he can't feel anything as fiercely anymore—that single-minded determination to defeat Voldemort when he was seventeen, the drive to win the Quidditch cup during his stay in Hogwarts, proving Draco Malfoy was up to something in sixth year—he doesn't feel anything close to it anymore, like he isn't properly alive but just a puppet going through the motions of living. How the thought that maybe part of his soul was also taken away the night he defeated Voldemort, causing this. How in the end, it is Hermione who suggested, that well, maybe he needs to look for something new to love—no, not a person, Harry, an experience or a hobby, maybe. You need to see new things, experience things without the Prophet and other tabloids taking note of your every move, you need space to find something you're genuinely passionate about again, she said. 

It was supposed to be a six month trip around Europe. It turned into a year, and then another in America, and then another in Asia. His friends had been encouraging and supportive at first, and had gradually turned into worrying and worry-induced-nagging about when he was coming home. Potter hasn't replied to their letters in months, although he still reads the mail they send regularly.

"The thing is... I don't really want to go home." Potter says, after talking for some thirty minutes, voice hoarse. "It's so... peaceful everywhere else. So many things to learn, to do, to see. When I travel, I feel a bit alive. If I go back home... I'd be looking, again, for something I can't find. And here... seeing you again, it's the first time in years I've felt like this in ages, like—like blood is rushing through my veins again."

Draco blinks in stunned silence. A few steps away, a restaurant flashes the closed sign, the last worker stepping out and locking the door. 

"And you realized all this through fighting with me?" Draco mutters. He can't think of anything else to say. "Maybe you do need drama in your life."

"Yeah, whod've thought I'd miss that?" Potter laughs hollowly. He kicks a pebble into the street.

Draco sighs. Potter has bared the last few years to him, without the influence of any truth potion or alcohol. He is taking the step to something, and Draco isn't sure what it is—still, he knows he can give as good as he got. 

"Luna visited me once, months after I settled here. I had just begun my job in Ai."

Potter looks over at him. And Draco finds himself telling Potter of his life the past few years, how Luna's eyes widen when she sees Draco bruised and disheveled (who had told her, through correspondence that he was doing quite well and she could visit him whenever she felt like it), how one of his clients has a grating laugh, and he talks until he's down to every last customer and toilet scrubbed, to the meals he takes alone and the constant messages he sends through his mobile to get his clients to come on certain nights, back to his encounter with the Yakuza boyfriend and how after becoming the most popular host in the club, he loses Ryo's good favor and friendship. 

By the time he's done talking, it's close to three in the morning.

Potter smiles and Draco knows, for certain this time, without the alcohol, the glass fixtures and the safety of knowing that everything that happens inside the club is just a fantasy, that this time, something fundamental has shifted in his relationship with Potter. 

So this is how it feels to be truly sober.

They stay like that for a while, enshrouded in silence, the hum and buzz of the nightlife in the district distant in their ears. The street lights twinkle at them, the night air cool on their skin. Across the street, a girl laughs as her boyfriend tries to untangle his scarf.

Potter speaks up again, hands locked around his knees. "I'm not going back to the club anymore, Draco."

The words hang in the air and Draco thinks he can see them, printed in red against the backdrop of people passing by. The use of his given name blinks in neon. 

He blinks. _What was all this for then?_ Draco wants to say. Was this Potter’s way of saying goodbye, now that he's done his good deed in Japan (which was what, exactly, mending bridges with Draco?) and it's time for Potter to move to another place now, continue his aimless wandering?

Before Draco can say anything, Potter is talking again, his voice low and quiet.

"I don't want to be another one of those people you see for work," Potter says. "I got mad earlier because I realized."

Potter pauses then reaches over and squeezes Draco's knee. He looks into Draco's eyes, green conveying more emotions that Draco has ever seen. 

"You were right. My concept of reality was blurring inside that club. And I took it out on you. I'm not going back there because I don't want to be just one of your clients."

The implication knocks the wind out of Draco. He manages a feeble, "What?"

Potter rolls his eyes. "I want something real, Draco. I want to see you outside of the club. When we're in Ai... sometimes, I don't know whether I want to punch you in the throat or give you the snogging of your life. Either way, it's the most I've felt about something in years. So, maybe we can try this out."

"Well, that's romantic," Draco says dryly. He drags his foot against the pavement, the bottom of his Oxford grating against stone, the sound rough to their ears.

Potter laughs, a slight tinge on his cheeks. "And I don't think I can handle seeing you flirt with so many people in front of me again, so." He shrugs, refusing to meet Draco's eyes. 

"Was that... the reason for the outburst earlier?"

Potter swallows and continues studying the streetlamp around the corner. "Yeah. It's been... building for some time, I guess. And we had days where it was just us, it was so easy to forget anyone else existed... and then the Japanese bloke came and you were exactly the same with him as you were with me and—" Potter stops. He shrugs. 

"I can't quit," Draco says, because it's the first thing that comes into his head. His position in Ai is something he has worked hard for, the first time he's worked for something that isn't done with the sole purpose of pleasing his father, the first thing he's slaved over without the threat of death looming over his head as motivation. It's something he's done just for himself. 

"I'm not asking you to," Potter says simply. "I want to see you, the real you, outside of what you are in the host club. I want to see if there is something we can build on."

"Do you think I've been selling you a fantasy all this time?" 

"I—well." Now Potter looks confused. "It's your job, isn't it? I don't think you act that much different with me than with any of your clients." He trails off, looking at the blinking lights in front of them.

"Potter," Draco says, hand reaching for Potter’s knee. "Have you not been listening when I told you I'd never had relations with a client before?"

Potter frowns. "Well, I'm not your client now, I just quit a minute ago."

Draco can't help the sound that comes from his throat. People like Potter best respond to action, he's learned over the years.

He leans over, one hand capturing Potter’s chin, his thumb running over Potter‘s cheek. He leans in and brings their mouths together. Potter‘s eyes widen but as soon as he gets the plot, he kisses back and Draco loses himself at the feel of Potter‘s tongue inside his mouth, with no traces of tequila or lime or salt. Potter‘s hand wraps around the back of his neck, brushing through the ends of Draco's hair. 

When they come up for air, Draco says, "Kissing is included in 'having relations', Potter. I've never kissed a client like that, inside or outside of the club."

"Oh," Potter says, blinking. Slowly, he smiles. 

“Call me Harry.”

Draco rolls his eyes.  
"You've ruined my reputation." Draco sighs. Potter—Harry’s fingers are still tangled in his hair.

"Sorry," Harry says. He doesn't sound sorry at all. He kisses Draco again. "D... d'you have to go back tonight?"

Draco looks at him. "Do you want me to go back?"

Harry blows through his fringe. "Honestly, Malfoy? I want to take you to my hotel and do whatever I please. You've been a right tease these past few weeks." 

Draco feels his lungs constrict. Ai wasn't going anywhere and right now, he wouldn't be able to do anything to fix his earlier faux pas at the club—but here, here he can. "Good answer. There's an Apparition point behind that restaurant up ahead."

Harry grins and kisses him again. Thoroughly. 

*

 

Many kisses (and hands finding skin, opening buttons and bodies pressed against each other, close, close) later, they finally make it to the Apparition point and then Harry’s hotel. 

Draco's hair is mussed up and his lips are red, and Harry doesn't look much better, fingers tangled in Draco's tie, teeth scraping against the side of Draco's neck. Draco is hard, and he can feel that Potter is too, from where he's pressed against Draco's thigh, hips moving in small thrusts. 

Harry manages to remove Draco's tie while Draco shrugs his jacket and waistcoat off. Harry opens the buttons of Draco's shirt, kisses a trail down each newly revealed patch of skin. Draco pulls at the buttons on his cuff, releasing his wrists from his shirt. Harry licks around his navel, tongue pressing briefly into the dip before he straightens, removing the last of Draco's shirt buttons. The shirt joins the other items on the floor. 

Harry swallows, one hand tracing the raised edges of the long scar on Draco's chest. Sectumsempra is Dark Magic, so of course, it left its mark. Harry’s eyes meet his and this time—this time Draco can read him, can sense the guilt oozing off Harry in waves. 

"Potter. Harry. It's over, we've apologized," Draco says, reaching for Harry's belt loops. He pops the button on Harry's jeans, tugs his zipper down, running his knuckles along the bulge in Harry's pants. Harry's hips move towards Draco's touch, seeking more friction. 

"I know," Harry mutters before bringing his mouth to Draco's scar, trailing kisses along the line. Draco shivers and focuses on divesting Harry of his jeans. Harry steps out of them at Draco's tugging, pulls off his shirt. Harry reaches for Draco's trousers, pulling Draco forward and kissing him.

Draco closes his eyes as Harry's tongue curls around his, Harry's fingers unbuckling his belt deftly and opening his trousers. Draco nibbles at Harry's bottom lip, earning a squeeze to his cock through fabric. Draco groans at the sensation, neck arching. Harry latches on to the junction of his neck and collarbone, licking, sucking while his hand slips under Draco's pants to give him slow, languid strokes. Draco's back hits the wall, fingers digging in Harry's bicep, legs moving further apart to give Harry more access. Harry drops to his knees pulls Draco's pants and trousers off, Draco almost stumbling to step out of them. Harry laughs, his breath ghosting against Draco's cock. Draco closes his eyes. 

He feels Harry's hand grip the back of his thigh, his other hand stroking him slowly. He feels Harry's tongue licking the sensitive head of his cock tentatively, then feels a broad wet stripe at the vein on the underside of his cock. Draco whimpers, his fingers finding their way to Harry's hair, and he tugs. Harry laughs again, and Draco's cock jumps. Wet heat envelopes him on all sides, sucking and Draco lets out a loud groan as his hips move forward of their own accord, fucking into that glorious mouth. All too soon, the heat surrounding him is gone and Draco blinks his eyes open, frowning. 

Harry is still on his knees, eyes dark with lust. "Look at me," he says, and Draco does. He watches Harry hold his cock between his fingers, leading the head of Draco's cock into his mouth and sucking noisily. He keeps his beautiful green eyes on Draco all the while as his mouth moves up and down, sucking the head of Draco's cock, running his tongue along the slit. 

Draco moans; he can't look away, Harry Potter's mouth is stretched obscenely around his cock, eyes on him as he moves and sucks and—

"Stop, I'm—" Draco breathes and tries to gather his wits, one hand gripping the base of his cock. "I'm going to come if you don't stop that." 

"So come," Harry says, eyes glinting. He puts Draco's cock back in his mouth, hand prying Draco's fingers away from his shaft, before massaging Draco's balls. His other hand moves up and down Draco's thigh, hairs rising in their wake until finally settling on Draco's arse. He leans back sucks the tip of Draco's cock, hard, and Draco feels fingers move towards his hole, tracing the opening. Draco groans, the sensations too much and releasing into Harry's mouth. Draco barely has time to breathe and slump against the wall when he's thrown to the bed, turned to lie on his stomach. There's a pillow against his face, and he feels Harry kissing a path down his back, tongue writing against skin. 

Harry runs his palms over Draco's smooth skin, to the pert cheeks of his arse. Harry still has his boxers on, precum leaving a wet patch in front. He rubs slowly against Draco's arse, hissing at the friction. 

Draco feels the cleaning spell and his hole twitches at the cool feeling. When did Harry even pick up his wand? He feels his cheeks being spread and—"Wait, Potter— lube—oh god fuck," Draco whines as he feels a warm tongue lapping along his crease. He draws his legs in under his body, opening him up to Harry's tongue. Harry licks around his hole, the tip of his tongue tracing each small line. Draco's legs splay wider on their own, pillow muffling his whimpers when Harry's tongue starts fluttering against his hole. Harry's hands spread his arse cheeks wider, and Draco's hole twitches when Harry blows air to the wet skin. Then Harry's mouth is on his arse again, tongue dragging backwards and forwards over the sensitive skin. Draco curses, pushing back against Harry's face in a silent plea for more.

"Oh god," Draco whines, when he feels Harry's tongue finally shove into his hole, his hole clenching around the intrusion. Harry makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, tongue lazily thrusting in and out.

"Ahh," Draco cries, chest heaving as the broadest part of Harry's tongue finally slips inside his hole. 

"Up for me," Harry says, voice hoarse. Draco complies, shakily, on his hands and knees. He's half-hard again and he hears the lubrication spell this time—it's all the warning he gets before Harry’s finger is in his hole, searching. 

"Shit, you're so tight." Harry sounds breathless, finger twisting around his hole. Draco unconsciously follows it as it pulls out, only to be replaced with two fingers. Draco mewls, biting down on the pillow. Harry's fingers curl into him, and before long three fingers are up in Draco's arse and he's begging Harry to hurry the fuck up, his cock dripping in response to the stimulation.

Harry laughs and bites his shoulder. Draco hears the slick slide of lube against flesh. "D'you want to turn around?" 

Draco does, turning to rest on his back easily. He lifts his legs and hooks them over Harry's shoulders. Harry's eyes flash—Draco looks undone, hair a mess and pupils dilated. Harry's cock is throbbing and red against his stomach, one hand stroking it slowly. 

Harry nudges Draco's thigh and slips inside, inch by inch. Draco bites his lip, relishing the pleasure of being filled, the pain of the stretch. Harry shifts his hips slightly and Draco's breath hitches. Harry leans forward, elbows bracketing Draco's head and thrusts. 

"Oh fuck." Draco tightens around him and Harry starts sucking on his collarbone, muttering "so tight, fuck," as he thrusts over and over into Draco. Harry pushes Draco's knee to his chest, opening him more and Draco feels so exposed and wanton—and he cries out as Harry finally hits his prostate, sending bolts of pleasure along his spine.

"More, there, again," Draco demands, fingernails raking down Harry's bicep, precum leaking from his cock. He fists his cock in his hand and pumps.

Harry laughs, and does it again, hips stuttering. Draco shivers, other hand falling from Harry's shoulder and scrambling for purchase on the sheets.

"You look... amazing... like that," Harry says, in time with his thrusts. The bed frame creaks. "Won't take... long... now."

Draco drags him down and kisses him thoroughly in response, hole clenching around Harry. Harry wrenches his lips away from him and his teeth clamp down on Draco's collarbone as he comes, warm liquid filling Draco up. 

"Ah—ah," Draco pants as he jerks off furiously, feeling Harry slowly softening inside him. Harry moves his head to Draco's chest, other hand helping Draco tug at his weeping cock. His mouth closes over a nipple, drawing it into his mouth, licking around it and sucking. It's the graze of teeth over the sensitive nerve that brings Draco over the edge, back arching and shouting Harry’s name in his release.

Harry kisses Draco's neck again before pulling out of Draco's hole and turning to lie next to him. His hand searches for his wand and he casts a cleaning spell. 

Draco blinks at the ceiling, thinking—Draco Malfoy just had sex with Harry Potter.

*

 

Harry's arm curls around his waist. 

"What're you planning to do now?" Draco asks, looking over at him. The sheets stick to his back.

"Sleep," Harry says, brow furrowed. He's lying on his stomach, half his face buried in a pillow.

"I mean," Draco says and trudges on before he thinks too hard about why he's asking this question, "are you planning to stay in Japan or are you going to continue with your traveling?"

"I said I wanted to try with you, didn't I." The arm around his waist tenses, slowly drawing away. "Unless you don't want to."

Draco pulls the arm back to lie around his waist, scooting over so he's trapped under Harry's arm. "Just checking."

Harry snorts, the air flipping some of his fringe unto the pillow. "Can I check if your relationship with your clients will be a problem, then?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "I've been a host for years, Potter. Clients won't be a problem." It's not the first time Draco's been asked for a relationship outside the walls of Ai, but he's never agreed to any of those who asked.

Except for Harry. Draco's broken many of his self-imposed rules with Harry as a client. He grins. "They're not you."

Harry pinches his side, legs nudging and tangling with his.

"Although, a vacation would be nice." Draco hasn't gone on a vacation since he's started working in Ai. The cutthroat competition means that hosts don't have the luxury of vacation leaves, if they want to keep their popularity and steady client base. And considering the events that transpired a few hours ago, Draco probably needs a bit of a break for the issue to cool down. Let Ryo be number one again—and then take the spot out from under him once Draco returns. Draco smiles thinking about it. That would be sweet.

Maybe he and Potter could help Luna hunt down her shapushiftus. They kind of owe her. Kiligblues indeed. 

"They say New York is nice this time of the year," Harry murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. Draco's hair tickles his chin. 

"Silly Potter," Draco says, eyes closed. He knows Harry is choosing the city because Draco's never been. "They say New York is nice any time of the year."

Outside, the sun rises, golden rays filtering through the bedroom window.

"Potter," Draco whispers drowsily.

"Name’s Harry," Harry mumbles. 

"Do you know what 'ai' means?" Draco opens his eyes. Harry looks so peaceful next to him, body loose and relaxed.

The arm around Draco pulls him even closer. "No."

"It means love." Draco snorts into his pillow. "A host club named love. Like regular clients will find any there."

Harry blinks one eye open. "Is what you sell though. Kind of fits."

Draco rolls his eyes. "It's cheesy. Ironic, yes, but cheesy."

"And you're telling me this because?" Harry yawns.

"Pillow talk," Draco says. He's always been a little bit chatty after sex. 

Harry chuckles, then moves so that his face is right next to Draco's. He whispers, breath trickling Draco's ear. "You never know. Some people might."

Warmth blossoms in Draco's chest. He wonders if Luna's kiligblues fill the room.

"Go to sleep," Harry says and Draco does.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Shapushiftus_ is a very bad wordplay on my end on how the Japanese would say 'shapeshifter' in English (it would be something like 'shapeshiftaa/shapushiftaa' which is too obvious, so). _Kiligblues_ is a play on the word kilig (definition: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m38efirZBH1r6nm6ao1_r2_500.png) added to blues (as in 'I have the blues'). The other creatures mentioned in this fic were taken from _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Stacey (LJ: quicheand) for taking the time to beta this and to the lovely mods of hd_fan_fair for being so patient with me.


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